“On Sunday mornings, as the dawn burned into day, swarms of gulls descended on the uncollected trash, hovering and dropping in the cold clear light.”

“Dawn's faint breathbreathes with your mouthat the ends of empty streets.Gray light your eyes,sweet drops of dawnon dark hills.Your steps and breathlike the wind of dawnsmother houses.The city shudders,Stones exhale—you are life, an awakening.Star lostin the light of dawn,trill of the breeze,warmth, breath—the night is done.You are light and morning.”

“Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.”

“I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.”

“After the storm the city lies becalmed. It is a sunny morning, still and cold. Branches litter the streets like broken limbs. People clear away the wreckage. They swarm around like ants whose anthill has been scuffed; how doggedly they rebuild their lives.”

“There is more day left to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.”